


On a Cold Winter's Night

by james



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Humor, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: A few years after the not-an-apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale are slowly moving their relationship along.  That means important milestones, like spending Christmas together.And a few surprises.*Mice were harmed in the making of this story. Sorry.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 74





	On a Cold Winter's Night

Crowley was comfortable, possibly as comfortable as he'd ever been, all year. Century. Forever, maybe, if only because he was too comfortable to think clearly about all the times in his existence that he'd been comfortable to compare this to. Spread out on Aziraphale's sofa, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers touching the floor, feet draped over the back and other arm of the sofa, he could hardly think of anything better – given that he could hear Aziraphale puttering about the flat, making 'hmm' noises and sounding quite delighted with his efforts.

Decorating for Christmas, Crowley knew, despite the way he'd had his eyes closed for the last two hours, dozing off and on. But when he'd arrived earlier in the day, intent on doing a lot of nothing, Aziraphale had had half a dozen boxes of tinsel and greenery and things spread out all over the floor.

Crowley knew better than to ask why he didn't just miracle the place decorated – it hardly counted as wasting a miracle if you were doing it to support Christmas, was Crowley's argument. But he knew Aziraphale, knew the angel preferred to do certain things by hand.

He would have done it himself had he known today was decorating day; Crowley was hardly concerned with what Hell would think of such a use of demonic power, even if they still paid any attention to him. But it made Aziraphale happy to do it by hand. Every holiday that he cared to decorate for, he was always hands-on, boxes of _stuff_ pulled out of storage and puttering about and adjusting everything until it was 'just so'.

There were some occasions for which he only decorated the shop downstairs, but a few times a year he decorated the flat as well and for all the obvious reasons, Christmas was one of them. International Bagel Day was another, which Crowley did not understand, but approved of, as it meant a dozen fresh, warm bagels which he didn't have to share with anybody. (Aziraphale didn't bake, but neither did he ever tell Crowley where the bagels came from, despite the fact there were half a dozen excellent bakeries in the vicinity. Crowley had half a suspicion he was miracling them from that tiny shop he loved so well, from over the ocean in Queens.)

Right at the moment, Aziraphale was hanging holly and humming a tune under his breath that hadn't been heard by human ears in over seven hundred years. Crowley finally opened his eyes to look, figuring the bulk of the work was done and he might be able to convince Aziraphale to stop for a bit and have some toffee, and sit at the other end of the sofa where he could fuss over Crowley putting his feet all over the furniture.

“What's that?” he asked, as he saw what the angel was doing.

Aziraphale spun around, smiling at him like he hadn't just been caught doing something ridiculous. “I'm hanging the stockings, dear,” he said. There was, in fact, one black and one white stocking now hanging from the mantlepiece.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Stockings?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale gave him the very faintest of frowns. “For Father Christmas, you know.”

“Father Christmas,” Crowley repeated, waiting for the punchline.

“Father Christmas fills the stockings,” Aziraphale said carefully, like maybe he thought Crowley had never heard of him.

There was a very long moment when Crowley considered the possibility that Aziraphale was having him on. It was one thing to hang the things and claim it was for the complete look, or aesthetic whatever. “Father Christmas. Who doesn't actually ex--”

Aziraphale gasped, so loud and sharp that Crowley actually stopped talking, and stared. He glanced around the flat wondering if somehow, perhaps, a human child had wandered in without him noticing. Aziraphale gave him a very scolding look, which made him feel...not guilty, demons didn't do guilt, but something like maybe possibly wishing he'd not done the thing, exactly. Sort of. 

Not _guilt_ though.

“Anthony J Crowley, do not say what I am certain you were not about to say!” Aziraphale exclaimed in a serious tone that made no sense whatsoever. 

“I...what...” Crowley looked around the room again, because the only thing that could explain this was playing for the effect of some innocent, gullible kid listening in. But there wasn't anyone except himself and Aziraphale.

Who, as a celestial being created by God Herself, knew perfectly well that Father Christmas didn't exist.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “Father Christmas,” he said, slowly, wondering if perhaps there was still a joke to be made, at his expense. Well, it wasn't as though Aziraphale was any better at delivering punchlines as he was doing magic tricks, so perhaps this was just an absurd set-up. He nodded. “Who...doesn't really exist,” he said over the second shocked gasp and scolding look Aziraphale sent him, which did absolutely nothing to his sense of non-existent guilt or very-existent confusion.

“If you keep saying that, Father Christmas isn't going to fill your stocking.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and Crowley glanced over at the stocking which, in fact, had “Crowley” written across the top of it in shiny black sequins. It was decorated in tiny horns and pitchforks. It was actually kind of nice in a demonic sort of way.

Crowley stood up and walked over to the mantle, looking very carefully at the stockings. The other, of course, was decorated in angel wings and halos and cups of cocoa, and had “Aziraphale” written across the top in silver glitter. 

“Do you--” Crowley began, but Aziraphale's expression went all hurt, suddenly, and Crowley realised that maybe it hadn't been a joke, as such. Maybe Aziraphale had just been indulging himself, and come Christmas he'd have filled them himself, and invited Crowley over-- oh, well, obviously he'd have to have invited Crowley over to spend the night, if they were to open their stockings in the morning.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Right. Father Christmas. Who fills the stockings.” He nodded. Aziraphale was giving him a very suspicious look now, and Crowley smiled as innocently as it was possible for him to smile, which wasn't very. But it was sincere, because he wanted Aziraphale to invent all sorts of reasons for Crowley to visit and stay over. “I suppose there's a first time for everything,” he said, then added quickly, “Since obviously I've never...hung a stocking, before. Dunno what it's like, is all.”

And there was the happy, adoring smile on Aziraphale's face, the one which made Crowley feel like someone had turned on a hundred sunlamps, right onto his skin.

So he'd be expecting an invitation to stay the night on Christmas Eve, and he'd act all surprised when Aziraphale handed him a stocking full of presents the next morning.

~ ~ ~ ~

Crowley was, to his absolute shock and surprise or lack thereof, invited to spend Christmas night with Aziraphale. He brought two bottles of wine and a box of chocolate truffles, and two very expertly-wrapped (not by him) presents to put under the tree. Aziraphale dimpled at him, which made his insides go a bit wiggly, but he'd expected that and firmed his resolve to do this exactly the way Aziraphale wanted it.

He'd realised that maybe this was something to do with “our first Christmas together” even though they weren't, yet, exactly. They weren't not, either, but rather in the sense that Aziraphale wasn't running away from him every time Crowley dared suggest they enjoyed spending time together and they could do it more.

Crowley had found a lovely cottage on the South Downs which he'd put his name on; when Aziraphale was ready, he planned on making the suggestion they go spend a few centuries there. It was starting to look like he'd be ready sooner rather than later, but after 6,000 years Crowley was in no hurry. 

Spending Christmas together was a huge step in the right direction and Crowley was glad he'd realised about the Father Christmas thing and had agreed to stay the night. He'd decided he would wait until after Aziraphale did his sneaky-miracling thing, then go sneak in a few demonicked gifts into the stockings as well, to show his support of new traditions. 

Whatever Aziraphale wanted to do was Crowley's motto, and had been for so much longer than he really liked to think too closely about.

Tonight it meant wining while Aziraphale dined, talking about this, that, and the other, and letting Aziraphale pick music that would normally make Crowley go running into the night, hissing and knocking over rubbish bins. He did notice there were as many songs about Santa Claus and Father Christmas as there were about the kid whose birthday they were celebrating, despite the fact he'd been born in the spring and not winter. Too many religious songs made Crowley's skin itch, but Aziraphale had a decent mix of other things, even comedy songs and secular carols that it was easy enough to tune it all out.

Eventually, though, it was late enough that Aziraphale started making noises about going to bed, shouldn't be up when Father Christmas gets here or he won't stop in at all. Crowley let himself be convinced to head into the bedroom and crawl under the covers for a really lovely cuddle.

This part they'd been doing off and on for – well, if you counted the very first time in that very cold and snowed-in cave, just over three thousand and twenty four years and eighteen days (and seven hours but Crowley was not counting.) But enjoying themselves without Aziraphale looking vaguely guilty the next day, rather less than two years. So, their first ever Christmas Eve together, followed by their first ever Christmas Night, and Crowley didn't even have to force himself in order to stay wide awake and enjoy it.

Soon enough Aziraphale fell asleep. Crowley could see the clock by the bedside, watching as midnight grew closer. He didn't know if Aziraphale was waiting for him to fall asleep, or what, but even when he closed his eyes and told himself to relax and have a nap with his nose pressed into the back of Aziraphale's neck, he couldn't fall asleep. Well, that was fine, he could sneak out and fill their stockings and come back to bed and Aziraphale could be the one to pretend he hadn't noticed in the middle of the night when he was doing his own sneaking.

There was a noise in the living room. Crowley's eyes flew open – and next to him, tucked under one of Crowley's arms, Aziraphale was still sleeping. After centuries of not seeing the point, he'd taken to the thing like a duck to water once Crowley had convinced him to try it. 

There was another noise, like a footstep on floorboards. _Right,_ Crowley thought. He'd gotten someone else to do the sneaking, so Crowley wouldn't notice him leaving the bed.

Crowley very carefully slipped out of the bed, shivering with annoyance because the bed was _warm_ and the room was very much not. He half-slithered, half snuck towards the door and pulled it open. There wasn't much light, a bit from the fairy lights hung outside, and the glowing of a few coals dying in the fireplace. Plenty for a demon to see by, and Crowley stepped out of the bedroom and into the living area.

A figure stood up, holding one of the biscuits they'd left for Father Christmas.

Crowley blinked.

There was a soft chuckle, then, “You shouldn't be out of bed,” the figure said, and he sounded...amused. Jolly, even.

Crowley stared. “What.” He flicked his fingers towards the candles which might not have been real until now – Aziraphale had gotten electric ones after Crowley had mentioned not being a huge fan of fire, after the bookshop had burnt down. Over-reacting, Crowley insisted, but the angel had got them anyway, and here Crowley forgot and lit them like normal, only remembering until after each candle lit with a tiny, real flame.

There was a figure dressed exactly like Father Christmas in Aziraphale's living room.

“Who are you?” Crowley demanded, only just keeping his voice down so as not to wake Aziraphale. He'd be so disappointed Crowley had woken up and spoiled the joke.

Except he'd got someone to dress the part, so obviously he'd known Crowley would have got up and seen him. But Aziraphale was still sound asleep, which he wouldn't have been if this was the big reveal of his joke.

The figure frowned at him. “I'm Father Christmas,” he said, stroking his long white beard. The robes looked real – green velvet, trimmed in real fur, holly leaves woven in a crown on his head.

“Ri-ight,” Crowley said. “Do you know who I am?”

There was a twinkle in the man's eye. “You're Anthony J Crowley,” he said, tipping the small box in his hand towards Crowley, so he could see the name tag where “Anthony J Crowley” was clearly written.

“But do you know _who I am,_ ” he said again. “So when I ask who you are, I want the truth, not...that you're some mythical being come to life in my friend's flat.”

The man straightened up, tugged at his robe, and looked at Crowley with a clear eye. “You don't believe I'm real?” he asked. 

“Well, obviously you're _real_ ,” Crowley said, waving his hand at the guy's outfit. “You're just not _Father Christmas._ ”

There was that stupid twinkle again, then he said sternly, “People who don't believe in Father Christmas don't get presents in their stockings.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley snapped, “Oh, come off it. I was there when this stupid planet was being built. I know everything that got made and put on it. I helped corrupt huge bits of it. I know what's real and what isn't, and Father Christmas _isn't real._ ”

“Ah,” the man said, sounding not at all upset. “And a demon who was once of Heaven, knows everything, of course.”

Crowley snapped his jaw shut, after realising it had fallen open. “Yes, uh, yes, that's what I'm saying.”

Maybe Aziraphale had got one of his...associates to do this? That didn't make any sense; Aziraphale had pretty much stopped talking to his co-workers, as it were, and was content to stay on Earth doing small good deeds here and there, without doing any of the proper paperwork. As far as Crowley could tell, She was leaving him – and them – to it. 

But this...whoever this was, was not a demon; Crowley would have noticed that immediately. 

Frowning, he reached out with a finger. The fake-Father Christmas person stood there, watching, as Crowley reached over and poked him in the arm. He wasn't angelic. He wasn't demonic – he wasn't human, or animal, or illusion. Crowley knew he might just be asleep, dreaming, except he didn't dream.

If anything, the sensation under his finger reminded him a lot of the Four Horsemen. Personifications of--

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Father Christmas tilted his head at him. 

“How do you expect me to believe you're the actual, real, Father Christmas? I would have noticed you.” He was fairly sure. Maybe. Even if he'd only come to life a century or so ago, Crowley was fairly sure he would have noticed the miracling necessary to create something like this. And children all over the world, all getting gifts on the same night?

Somebody would have said something.

Surely.

“How do you get to every home in the world in one night, then?” he demanded.

The man gave him an amused, and patient smile. “Magic, of course. You realise I don't visit every home – not everyone believes in Father Christmas. Not even all those who celebrate Christmas believe in me. Many children are content to receive gifts from their parents, and pretend they're from me. And of course all the children who don't celebrate Christmas don't expect me to visit at all.”

Crowley waved his hand. “Right, right, so only a few million. In one night.” He looked around for the large bag holding the endless supply of presents.

Father Christmas smiled and held up a small, green velvet bag. It barely looked big enough to hold one present. As Crowley watched, Father Christmas pulled a very long, wrapped box out of the bag and set it on against the wall, next to the tree. The tag read 'Aziraphale.'

“Magic, I'm guessing,” Crowley said.

“Magic,” Father Christmas agreed. “Are you...entirely unfamiliar with the concept?” 

“I know it's not pulling rabbits out of hats,” Crowley said. Not unless a friendly demon lends a hand, Crowley thought. He'd considered getting Aziraphale a book on How To Do Magic, but he wasn't sure if Aziraphale's feelings would be hurt.

His magic tricks were the absolute worst, but Aziraphale seemed to have an enormous blindspot where that was concerned. Good thing Warlock had forgiven them the travesty of his birthday; it helped that they brought him much better presents nowadays, not to mention dropping in from time to time to make sure he was doing his homework and not setting fire to any teacher's desks that didn't absolutely deserve it.

“Adam didn't make you, did he?” Crowley asked, as a penny potentially dropped. 

“He did not,” Father Christmas said, and Crowley found himself believing him. “In fact I have a few gifts for he and his friends, here. Usually teenagers have stopped believing in me, but Adam...well, he has a way about him, doesn't he? The whole town of Tadfield is still on my list.” Father Christmas chuckled.

“What about--” Crowley snapped his jaw shut again. He and Aziraphale had posted presents to Warlock, signed with the names he knew them best by, though of course now he knew their real ones. That had been a very long and difficult conversation, and Crowley had been very glad to leave most of it up to Aziraphale. But now, with Warlock's parents divorced and Warlock himself living with an Aunt right here in London, they'd started making things between them a little better.

Nothing worse than a teenager who feels you abandoned him just when he needed them, though Crowley could hardly blame him. But they were working on it, and Warlock was letting them, which was most of the battle right there.

“Would you happen to have something--” Crowley started again, then realised this was _not_ the real Father Christmas, there was no such thing so asking was ridiculous.

“A gift for your young man? Of course.” He patted his bag. “A new controller and headset for his video games. And some new underpants and socks.” He winked. “Tradition.”

“Right, good.” Crowley nodded. He was beginning to feel like...maybe he should just let him get on with it. He was cold, anyway, and Aziraphale would still be warm and snug under the covers, and this...whoever this was, he wasn't.... Wasn't.

Crowley had no idea.

He wanted to be in bed and not think about it anymore.

Father Christmas took another biscuit from the plate and ate it, making an appreciative noise. 

“Right. I'm going back to bed.”

“Happy Christmas, Anthony,” Father Christmas said.

“Happy---urgh,” Crowley said, and he went back into the bedroom. Aziraphale hadn't stirred, neither had the mice behind the baseboards. Crowley slipped back under the covers and into the warmest spot he could find, and went to sleep.

~ ~ ~

The next morning he woke slowly, hearing the very normal, if slightly quieter, sounds of traffic outside, and the flutter of snow, and the whistling of the kettle from the kitchen. Soft footsteps as Aziraphale moved about the kitchen, feet in tartan slippers which Crowley knew from having curled up in one, were very soft and comfortable indeed. 

He thought about shifting into his snake form and slithering out, stealing one such slipper and sleeping the rest of the day in the kitchen – then he _remembered_. Sitting bolt upright, Crowley blinked furiously as his brain tried to switch on. 

Then he scrambled out of bed and rushed into the next room, just as Aziraphale was coming out of the kitchen carrying a tray. “Good morning, dear.” Aziraphale said, brightly. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy-- urg, what. What.” Crowley was staring at the stockings.

The very full stockings.

Aziraphale hadn't moved from the bed at all, until just a bit ago, and Crowley hadn't felt the slightest bit of miracling going on at any point all night. There were gifts under the tree, which Crowley had put there himself yesterday, alongside the ones that had already been there when he'd arrived. The stockings had been empty. 

Now the stockings were full and there were two extra presents under the tree – well, one beside it and what on Earth had Father Christmas brought Aziraphale that was long and skinny. He looked at the stockings again. Bulging. With stuff. Which neither of them had put there.

“What.” Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, who was smiling at him still, holding out the tray towards him.

“I see you'd like to start with stockings, then,” he said as Crowley reflexively took the tray and juggled it a bit, before setting it down on the table. Where the plate with biscuits had been and was now only crumbs. 

Which he would obviously have blamed on Aziraphale eating them for breakfast, except Crowley had stood here and watched... Father Christmas stand there and eat them.

“What,” he said again, and picked up the cup of tea from the tray. He blew on it and took a sip, then remembered he hated tea and set it back down again.

“Sit,” Aziraphale was saying, and Crowley sat, legs feeling a bit numb, and blinked some more as Aziraphale laid a filled stocking in his lap.

“You didn't do this,” Crowley said. Even as he'd been sleeping, he'd had one eye and ear and demonic finger out waiting for some sign. 

“Of course not, it was--”

“Father Christmas, yeah, he said.” Crowley felt a little drunk. 

He looked up and saw Aziraphale looking at him, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised, like he knew exactly what Crowley had done and wasn't exactly angry at him for it, but neither was he going to let it go. 

“That wasn't really Father Christmas,” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale sat down in the other chair, their knees angled towards each other, stockings draped across each of their laps. “In fact, it was,” he said, and he reached a hand into his stocking. He grinned, suddenly, and pulled out a small tin of cocoa. “Oh, how delightful.”

Crowley stared. Then he looked down at his own stocking. He could see, right at the top, a white and red striped something just peeking out. He pulled it out. It was a large, plastic candy cane – and it was cold. Crowley frowned. Looking closer, he realised it wasn't plastic, and that it was filled with something alive.

Alive, but frozen. A candy cane filled with frozen mice.

Crowley stared some more. There was a little card attached, with instructions for removing one mouse and defrosting it properly, and a short note about maybe don't torment it before consumption.

As though he had _ever._ Once, maybe, just to see why cats liked it so well.

He looked up at Aziraphale. “That wasn't... really?”

“I keep telling you, it was.” 

“But – _how_? There wasn't... when did he.. what happened. _Who made him?_ ”

Surely he would have heard if anyone Downstairs had done it, and the idea that someone from Up There would bother.... Only Aziraphale would even think of it.

“You made Father Christmas,” Crowley said, and it finally made sense. As little sense as it made at all.

Aziraphale sniffed, primly. “I didn't.”

“You...didn't.” Crowley took a moment to let that sink in. He knew Aziraphale was telling the truth, but that didn't leave many other options.

“Not me,” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and gestured at the plate of toast, as though asking did Crowley want any. 

Even if he ate toast, he didn't want any now. There was a very unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Someone Up There made Father Christmas. Oh, please don't tell me it was Gabriel, there is no way he would do such a thing. No,” Crowley thought about it. “Not...no, not him, either. Uh... No, sorry, can't see it.” Crowley shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea who in Heaven's Name would have ever done this.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Michael.”

“Michael what?” 

“Michael made Father Christmas.”

Crowley rubbed at his left ear. “I think this body has gone on the fritz. Hate to order a new one. But I swear it sounded like you said--”

“Michael made Father Christmas. Some time ago,” Aziraphale added.

“Wh-- Why. Why would _Michael_ make the concept of Father Christmas into a corporeal being who visits people to bring them gifts.”

If this was a joke on Aziraphale's part, Crowley was very impressed with his dedication to the set-up.

“Oh, something about wanting to miracle a present for a child, and of course she couldn't just do it for one child, there were siblings in the same house, I understand. And children talk, of course, the entire school would have known all about it, hundreds of disappointed children that Father Christmas hadn't left them anything.” Aziraphale shrugged, like they were discussing the weather or billards standings. 

“You're telling me that Michael made a corporeal being into existence for one kid.” No, actually, that sounded entirely like her. “But... _She_ didn't say anything?”

“Well, I'm given to understand all the paperwork was in order so there was nothing to be done about it.” Aziraphale smiled. “And if anyone is good at wrangling paperwork--”

“It's Michael,” Crowley agreed. Nasty stuff, horrible invention, and Michael was completely and scarily good at it. Crowley wasn't convinced paperwork hadn't been created by Hell, but Heaven had certainly taken it on and made it their own.

He looked down at the stocking in his lap. What would the archangel say if she knew Father Christmas had given _him_ a stocking.

He was not about to ask.

Crowley reached in, and pulled out a chocolate orange. He might even eat a piece of it, before giving it to Aziraphale.

~ ~ ~

It's a fishing pole. There's a pond out back of the cottage on South Downs, and while Aziraphale is rather horrified at the idea of _catching_ fish as he doesn't want to hurt the poor things, he will find he rather likes engaging in the activity of fishing as long as there are no actual fish being caught. Sitting outside on a lovely day, doing practically nothing. Of course the wine and the company helps, since there is also a large rock where Crowley can curl up in the sun.

Crowley's gift is a heated pad which he can slip under almost anything and make it nice and toasty warm. There's also a pair of Santa Claus sunglasses, which he wears for twenty-two weeks straight and refuses to take off even when Aziraphale points out it's nearly June. As though anyone would engage in Christmas festivities when it is nearly June. Honestly.


End file.
